


tell me baby (you'll love me t'il the day i die)

by jjins



Category: NCT (Band), Stray Kids (Band), 방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Bikers, Blood, Crack and Angst, Gang Violence, Gangs, Heavy Angst, M/M, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Underage Drinking, Unrequited Love, Violence, bad boy jisung!!, hoseok n doyoung are there for two seconds, im scared that there even is a crack and angst tag, minho is half confused and half hard, there is no in between
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-22
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-10-14 06:19:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17503250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jjins/pseuds/jjins
Summary: Minho looks up, eyes widening as he took in the scuffed leather jacket, torn and patched jeans, and wild blue hair, slicked and parted so that the boy’s forehead showed through.Blue boy leans down, and with a drag of his cigarette and motor oil slipping through creases of his leather jacket, flashes a smile brighter than the moonlit nights of Seoul.“What’s a pretty kitty like you doing here, hmm?’inspired from 5sos youngblood.





	1. Burnout

When Minho had been asked as a child about what he wanted to do in the future, he would’ve given an answer like a child: an astronaut, a dancer, a fireman willing to save the world. His eyes would’ve glistened at the thought of the future, a smile reaching his lips as he thought about the possibilities, a life that felt so far away from when he was young.

Four years into the present, he’d been propped up against the iron bars of the hospital’s bed, listening to the nurse’s whisperings around him. _The car never saw him coming_ , they hissed beneath their breath, _a shame that he built his life around dance, the poor thing._

He'd grown tired of the pointed stares, the constant buzz of mild annoyance as the nurse checks his vital signs and drip. He'd grown tired of the doctors walking in every month to 'update him on his progress' when he knows there's no progress to be made. Their eyes would be vacant, smiles simple there to provide false comfort as they discuss with him the so called 'leads' on his condition, when he had already known from his mentor's eyes that he would not be able to continue.

Hoseok met him the day after the accident, then a week, then a month later. Minho just smiled tiredly at each of his disappearing visits as his old dance instructor cast quick glances to his legs, promises to come around soon, then vanishes behind glass doors. He'd brought back videos of other trainees' showcases occasionally, which brought a tight-lipped grin to Minho's gaze as he stared at the kids behind the tabloid's screen. 

Soon after the initial shock, the visits came much less frequently, save for his friend Chan, who had set himself up with a schedule of visiting Minho's bedside with old blockbusters and candies, megawatt smile and all.

When Minho questioned said friend, Chan simply smiled at him. "You're kind, Minho. And I believe that kindness should be treated with kindness, no matter who the person is."

Which is why, he was being pushed in his wheelchair into a serene room, where a smiling nurse at the door greeted him with a tight lipped smile. He’d expected nothing of the sort when he had been outlined the operation, where the extensive safety measurement had him mentally prepare for more a room one would see in a science experiment. This, however, was new to him, gripping the wheels tightly as he rolled forwards, taking in the various decorations in this new zen room of sorts. 

_“A program,” Chan had proposed, his eyes flickering with a small flame of hope. At Minho’s expression, he shifted uncomfortably, glancing at Minho’s ruined leg wrapped beneath white bandages. “An untested simulation that would send them back to the past. Used for patients with no hope left, those who wish to live out the rest of their life in the best condition within an alternate time frame.”_

“Think of it as a simulation,” The nurse smiled to Minho as the pill was placed in front of him. “You will be reverted back to the time before you experienced this trauma, and we will provide you with a timer to make sure that you can finish whatever you want before your time is ultimately up.”

Paper were pushed in front of him, his eyes intaking the already too-familiar guidelines before signing his name at the bottom line, the sound of water gurgling behind him.

 _ **Neo Culture Technology**_ , the paper stated boldly at the start, as Minho scanned down the page for the outlines of the experiment.

_An untested operation for time warping, the paper stated. Dangerous, and test subjects are usually patients with either a severe and permanent physical disability, or are about to die. Success rate is low, and improvements are being made with respect to the testers._

_A chance to go back to the life you once had. A test to see if we can successfully rewind time._

“A question?” His voice sounded small, pathetic even, and Minho cringed as the nurse turned their calculating eyes upon his frame. “How--How does the timer even work? Is this a mystery high you’re giving me or--”

“Mr. Lee, our procedures are temporarily unreleased to the public, and that includes you as we do not know if you should survive,” The glass smile was back again, cracking at the edges as Minho stared into their grey eyes. “The medication in front of you only makes your mind clear for our scientists to prepare you for the travel you’ve signed to. The watch will appear on your arm should the simulation be successful. Do not question us again, and please, take the pill.”

The name tag on the nurse read ‘ **DOYOUNG** ’ in neat, capital lettering, and Minho ran it over his mind that this Doyoung might not exactly be flowery nurse image he’d always carried in mind. Perhaps it was shown on his face, but Doyoung turned around, and gave a small smile to Minho as he resumed tapping away at his tablet furiously, as if writing his obituary.

A few moments later, he was alone again. The nurse had bowed on their way out, leaving the mysterious green pill in front of him, along with a small plastic watch. Minho picked it up, and upon closer examination, the time was set to 48 hours.

48 hours. Possibly two days to live the rest of his life out, free of his mangled legs. Two days to live the life he’d dreamed of getting back for almost four years. Two days in exchange for the rest of his life, laying in a hospital bed, only able to press buttons to herd nurses to him, trapped in the prison of his own body.

Minho stared at the pill, then knocked it back dry as he felt the door behind him open again, the voices fading to the back of his head as his vision whited out, his mind filled with only blank static as he passed out.

For him, death and the bed were almost equals, anyways, so what’s the damage done?

 

## 48:00:00

## start.

 

At first, there was deathly silence. Minho briefly wondered if the drug did anything at all, much less make him go back in time. His mind was blurred after the pill, the only memories fading slightly in and out of his foggy head were blue-masked doctors and a huge blinking screen.

After that, it was dark. He had no idea how much time had passed since he’d swallowed the pill, his arms remaining like logs to his sides, unresponsive to his very crude remarks on how to _move, for christ’s sake._

Then there was the sensation of the sun, baking his face underneath summer rays. Then, the almost immediate feeling of pain in his lower legs.

Minho gasps as his eyes flew open, flinching when the broad sunlight met his tired eyes. He tried to process where he was, staring up at a cloudless sky, concrete warm against his back. His head pounded, and he winced at he sat up, brushing the patches of sand that had somehow landed on him.

_Where did they take me?_

A hazy fog of red tinged his gaze, his breaths coming more rapidly as multiple flares of pains shot up around his back. Tongue heavy in his mouth, Minho shakes his head a little, wincing as a wave of pain throbbed behind his eyes. His eyes felt stuck together by a thick sand, grains catching themselves in his eyelashes, looking at his surroundings with a murky filter. Crumpling slightly in on himself, Minho’s lips curl as his extends his feelings around his limbs, feeling the already forming bruises beginning to ache as he woke. Heat ebbed up his back, the already-burning pavement providing no comfort for his sensitive hands. Cars whistled on the street across from him, metal heads catching the glare and reflecting off on dark neon signs. Wind whistled around him, reminiscent of the summer breeze that he missed so dearly. 

He’d woken up to what seemed to be the driveway of a closed neighborhood, where he could hear the laughter of children and sprinklers on the other side of the house. Occasionally, Minho caught the few tinkling notes of an ice cream truck, the shrieks of youth that chased the noise bound to summertime. Sunlight beat down on his body, which he noted was still in hospital scrubs, and the curious gazes towards his--

He blinked. Blinked again. Because there, right in front of his eyes, (although very battered and bruised in places) were his legs.

Healthy, very unbandaged and mobile legs.

_You’ll be able to live out the rest of your life as you once were; an alternative timeline where your incident never happened._

_A rewind of time._

He experimentally kicked his left leg, watching in amazement as it responded, moving underneath the sickly mint scrubs as if he were never hurts, never injured. With half a mind left, Minho noticed the flash of of his wrist, the electronic numbers slowly decreasing as he watched with awe when his bruises faded before him, rich purples melting into greens, yellows, then disappearing completely; as if they were never there. The sun shone brighter in the thick summer air, salt enrapturing his senses as he picked himself up from the ground to lean against a wall of some building, staring at the ocean coastline beyond. Sounds of waves crashing reaches his ears as Minho smiled, staring, emboldened by the gold sky.

His legs were back. The accident never happened.

There was 48 hours for him to use without consequence. 48 hours for him to be who he once was again, the wind whistling his hair as he ran through sunrises and empty streets, relishing the taste of youth.

Of course, he’d suspected that his moment of epiphany wouldn’t last long.

There were cars honking at him by the sides of the streets, and as Minho squinted his eyes more at the foggy view (his eyesight wasn’t cured, unfortunately,) he picked up the sight of other pedestrians cursing at him as they sped by on heat riddled black roofs. The sun beat down on him more, as if chasing him away from its golden rays. Standing, legs wobbling like those of a newborn fawn’s, Minho slowly backed away from the street, feet catching on pebbles and the occasional sharp prick of a shattered beer bottle. He winced at the pain, legs giving out after a while of half hobbling, half shuffling his back to lean against a shade covered garage. His weight almost collapsed on the metal of the door, a loud clang of cold metal and the rattling of shutters as his body slid down to the floor without his will, his body too tired to function. The laughter and cheers of summer faded around Minho as he groaned when his sore back hit the wall, noise becoming more than a faint roar as he sat down, concrete rugged against his scrubs.

“Oh, fuck,” He muttered beneath his breath, as he glanced down at the damage. Glass pierced the bottom of his foot in multiple places, not enough so the bleeding was bad, but enough so that Minho cringed as he tried to pull out a shard. Minutes later, he huffed at the stubbornly embedded objects, instead curling up on himself and checking the watch as time slowly ticked down.

 _An hour wasted on waking up, huh?_ Minho glared at the digital number slowly decreasing, the flickering numbers almost mocking him situation as it slowly ticked down. Wind whistled around him, the already empty neighborhood feeling somehow even more empty than before, leaves scattered around his feet.

He must not have been paying enough attention, because the roar of the crowd soon turned into a different type of roar, more machinery than the joy of children. Blearily, as he raised his eyes to the sunbathed road, he saw the glint of something metallic heading towards his position, still in those mint colored scrubs that he grew sick of in the hospital. He must have not been awake enough either, as he eyes threatened to close halfway as the metallic glare made its way over to his driveway. There was a yell of someone, a boy maybe, as Minho’s head stuttered its way towards his knees, as the whirring of an engine, louder now, as something pulled up infront of him, heat radiating of it in waves.

Minho caught a flash of navy blue, kind brown eyes set in a youthful face, brief catches of leather and tattooed skin before his eyes drifted shut despite his already alarmed mind. The watch beeped softly on his wrist, glowing green numbers still slowly counting down.

## 47:00:--

## 46:59:59

 


	2. Exhale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Minho finds out more about this brand new world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unbetaed b/c we die like men in this household

“-jin. Woojin, no, you can’t kick out your customers even though—”

“Yeah, you heard him, hyung; not even your shitty biker boyfriend wants to upset an ass like mine—”

Minho’s back hurts. Well, mostly everything hurts, just mainly his back and now his head as he feels an oncoming migraine at the shouts and clatters splitting the air.

He’d been out for…how many hours now? His mind wanders; foggy with memories that are overspilling into his woozy mind. He turns his head slightly, vision coming back to him as the black, velvety backseat of a couch greets his eyes. His limbs feel heavy, and if Minho focuses, he can feel the slightly pinch on his ankles, possible knocked up or scraped.

“-and I was trying to tell him, the absolute shithead of a friend, that he can’t just leave people around my couches and blast off on his damn motorcycle-“

Voices arguing waft through the thin walls as Minho groans, trying to pull himself up. His muscles protested at the simple movement, and he resorted to using the back of the sofa to heave himself up. A blanket covered his lower body, and he realized slowly that his hospital attire had been changed into something lighter. Cotton fabric met his fingers as he curiously pulled at the white fabric covering his top, and glanced at the jeans laying innocently on the chair beside the couch, with an extra pair of underwear.

He feels the slightest blush coming up his cheeks, mind struggling to piece together the information as a ripple of shame washed him over. Had someone undressed him while he was unconscious? His hands feel fine, a small cut on his palm from either glass or gravel, palms rubbed a bit pink. He gathered from his state of attire, along with the somewhat subpar room he was in, that he was in a hotel room of some kind. Floral printed curtain adorned the rather small window, a bed shoved into a painted chipped corner where light streamed through misted glass. Pushing himself up into a more comfortable sitting position, he reached over for the pants as the doors banged open.

A sculpted face burst through the door, gentle eyes raised a bit in surprise at the sight of him, plush pink lips dropping open. Minho let out an embarrassed little squeak as he scrambled back into the carpet velvet, pulling his blankets closer as the other raised a (shaved, Minho notes) eyebrow, hands up in surrender.

His hair was blonde, and Minho eyes the rest of him warily as the initial shock wore off. Dyed, as Minho stared at some dark roots peeking under the undercut, the ends of their hair tinged with a soft pink as if to curb their angled features, now turned into a small frown at the state of Minho.

“Hey, look, man; I don’t know who you are and nor am I willing to find out what are under those blankets,” Blonde boy’s voice carried an edge of panic, tinged with a bit of accent Minho couldn’t place. “I could care less about what you’re wearing, but you’ve got to be _someone_ if Jisung dropped a whole satchel to carry you here.”

New boy was the first person he’d encountered here, Minho realizes, his gaze falling to a scuffed leather jacket, slim silver chains adorning his neck as well as his fingers. Their piercings were pretty prominent as well, as Minho notes several in the newcomer’s ears, along with a bar in his left eyebrow. Gray eyes stared at Minho promptly, as if awaiting an answer, and oh—

Blondie looked so very much like Chan.

Minho’s mind spun, his throat scratched and parched as he tried to speak, only to end up in hacking coughs. The newcomer looked a bit alarmed, if not, and Minho struggled to breathe for a bit before he felt a warm hand on his back, lightly patting to sync his lungs up. His vision blurred with some tears, which he raised a bare hand to when he saw the watch.

#  42:00:00 

The numbers blinked at him, flashing neon reflected in his glassy eyes as he stares at the numbers slowly ticking down. Time made itself known again in Minho’s mind, scattered like ash on the crystal trays near his reception table. Reality seemed to wrench the breath from his lungs, eyes tearing up at the lack of oxygen. Chan…was this what he meant by not worrying while going through the experiment? His mind dimly made out the sensation of the stranger patting (slamming?) his back as he struggles to regain his breath. Something thin and slightly sharp poked at his lips, a calloused hand holding his mouth open as a straw slipped inside and Minho took thankful gulps of the clear liquid. Water washed a bit of the stickiness of his throat away, settling the sour taste that had attached itself unknowingly to his tongue. He spluttered a bit, initially, at the coldness and the stranger instinctively wrapped a back around his back, supporting his figure.

As soon as he was done, however, as the straw drew away from his chapped lips, Minho cleared his throat before turning to face the stranger, who was just leaving the room. 

“Hey,” He winces, still not used to his voice. “Thanks for…thank you for that.”

Fake Chan (Minho decides in his head) turns back, eyes wide at first before his lip betrayed a small smile that somehow made his face look more youthful than before, the gentle quirk of his eyebrow somehow more welcoming now that Minho made the connection between this version of Chan and…present day Chan, he guesses.

“You can call me Chris, newbie,” The other smirked at Minho’s reaction. “Try not to be so shaken up once you meet Jisungie, hmm?”

Chris sounded less shaken now, as Minho watched him cross the room, the slightest swing in his step. In total, Minho has heard this Jisung person exactly two times before recalling the flash of blue hair in his shifting memories. He wrinkled his nose at the scene that played out in his head, how his head was pressed too closely to the other’s jacket, smell of gasoline overwhelming on his senses before seeing Cha—Chris smiling at him like a Cheshire Cat.

“Ah, don’t worry too hard now, babe,” Chris grinned again, moving across the room to lean against the doorframe. “Our dear Jisung can be a bit overbearing like that, picking up complete strangers from curbsides because he thinks they’re a hot piece of ass. Go get some rest now, uh…”

He trails off on Minho, who then realizes he was asking, albeit silently, for his own name. Minho flushes a bit from the pet name that slipped from the other’s lips, and that threw himself off by just the slightest bit as he managed to find the word in his mind. For some while, Minho rolled the possibility of giving Chris a fake one, before throwing that option entirely out of the window and staring up at those grey eyes.

“Minho,” He cough slightly, throat still not accustomed to being used this much. “You can call me Minho, or whatever you’d like.”

That last part was a slight bit of a slip-up, but Minho can basically see Chris’s eyes glinting with amusement from even across the room. His ears burn from embarrassment, that last little bit laying heavy on his tongue as he tries to find solace by pretending to cuddle further into his own blankets, ignoring the low whistle Chris gave him.

“Well then,” Chris muses, and Minho can practically see him holding in that tight grin of his, so similar on Chan whenever he was going to tell Minho his terrible jokes. Minho’s chest throbs a little, heart jumping a little as Chan finishes his phrase.

“See you soon then, kitten.”

(Minho then realizes, that in his furious attempt to hug the blanket tighter, it had shifted up, exposing his uncovered legs and a sliver of skin between t-shirt and waistband. He flushes a bit at this, remembering Chris’s low whistle, and then mentally scolds himself for even being embarrassed.)

(Sometimes, he really hates his own mouth.)

 

\---

 

Half an hour later and Minho already misses his phone. 

He had no idea what time it was, and judging from the sunny exterior from his limited view from the window, it would either be early afternoon or a bright noon. Golden sunlight betrayed nothing of the time, and the watch slowly ticking away on his wrist doesn’t do his frayed nerves any better. Minho groans as he tugs the blanket higher, not daring to move from the couch either after Chris had left the room.

Speaking of Chris…Minho’s mind wanders, wondering what it would’ve been like for himself in his own time.

Had Chan stopped caring for him after the experiment had gone through? Minho shakes his hair out of his face, slightly pinching himself to prove that he wasn’t dreaming some sort of crazy dream. His arm throbbed in response, as if mocking him for not believing this reality. Chan…Chan must’ve still been there, beside him right? His mind wanders aimlessly, not a goal in his head but still wanting to understand the strangeness of the situation at hand, because he honestly was still disorientated about the whole ordeal. Looking back at the experiment, he’d only remembered taking the pill, not anything that had happened afterwards. As much as he racked his mind to remember the events that came afterward, he only came up with a white haze in his mind. Minho’s eyes prickle, his breath picking up as he tried to grasp his surroundings, still holding on to the ridiculous comforter.

He was in a place of the past, where no one knows him, where his friends don’t even exist yet, where he can die without anyone remembering him other than the recorded patient number within the hospital system. Maybe the scientists also assigned me a number and a code, Minho smiles bitterly, maybe that’s another way for people, however less, to know that Lee Minho once existed in this world.

In a way, he realized, he’s even more limited than he was in the hospital, where he couldn’t interact with anyone other than the occasional nurse. He’d walked from one hospital bed to another, strapped down in the past and gagged with the information of the present, as much as he was caged without the usage of his legs. He felt like throwing up, tears pricking the sides of his eyes. With some difficulty, he tried to swallow around the lump around his throat to glance at the shiny blue plastic adorning his wrist, slightly scuffed from his arrival here.

#  41:26:09 

Around forty one and a half hours for him to live with his legs. Around two days before.. what? Does he die on the spot? Does he get unplugged from some giant system keeping him in the past, or does he just disappear on the spot to be returned to present day, in his old age to crumble to dust infront of Chan?

Minho shakes his head again, coughing slightly at his lack of water. He really hated his mind.

Well, he could get up and just /move around,/ his mind supplies helpfully and Minho sighs at it, picking himself up to grab at the pile of clothes. In the moment, he’d lost track of the sun outside, which had begun to set, starting to paint everything outside a shade of golden amber. He changed slowly, arms and legs still not used to movement from being cooped up for so long with those sterile white walls. After a while of struggling to fit his legs through the jeans, holes catching his feet and him cursing to command his finger to just /move/ and zip up the zipper, he catches a glance of himself through the bathroom mirror, however dusty it was.

He looked…worse for wear, to say. His eyeballs were dark and purple, and Minho pouts at this before he catches himself pushing at his cracked lips. A crack between the dead skin on his bottom lip splits, and Minho tastes iron on his tongue before the blood starts to well up, which he quickly wiped away with his forearm. His hair was a bit ruffled, not oily but dusty from sleeping on the couch, sticking up at odd angles. He looks down at his hands, noting the small scars and scabs at the cuts the shattered glass bottle made, the brilliant red smear of blood faded to a crude imitation of yellow where the blood stain ended off.

So yeah, he thought, eyeing himself up. He’s been worse before, but this certainly wasn’t his best.

His gaze caught on the doorway where Chris had disappeared into, door slightly ajar as if to be inviting him to step outside the room. He stumbled his way to it, half-heartedly glaring at his legs almost tripping him into the doorframe before he pushed the door apart. 

The sun immediately hit him, making him squint slightly as he opened his eyes to the sight before him. Light softly struck the windows before him, and as Minho steps out from the room he’d been in, he can makes out the sound of the crowd, not sounding far off, and the sound of the roaring water. Pretty aqua-blue rooftops greeted him along with baby pink painted walls, wooden frames of window painted a brilliant white that stung his eyes. The more he focused his gaze, he noticed a small room off the the side of the pastel rooms in front of him, a small neon sign that glowed “OPEN” with a bell hanging on the outside. 

Minho stared at it for a while, a shiver passing through him as he watched the sun set lower, the evening breeze getting to him as he stumbled across the parking lot that separated him and the building, hands catching on random cars as he drunk-walked his way over. The back of mind supplied helpfully that all those english classes with Chan had actually mattered now, before Minho smacked his forehead to make those voices shut the hell up.

Placing a hand on the glass door, a curtain covering it from the other side, he bites his spilt lip before giving it three knocks, wincing as the rapping reached his ears. Faintly, he hears the rustling of papers before the curtain was lifting, revealing a pair of curious eyes, half lidded with the summer haze.

“Can I help you?” The stranger supplies in heavily accented english, eyebrow tilting upwards as he eyes Minho. His heart somewhat clenches at this action, remembering his bloody lip and heavy bags. He winces slightly, and at this moment his legs decide it’s the right time to give up on him again, making Minho collapse in front of the door before he hears it creak open. He stifles his yelp of pain as he feels a presence make its way over, and hears the sound of sneakers slamming the pavement before he hears a muffled sound of surprise.

A face comes into his field of vision, wide eyes rounded with surprise and concern as Minho grimaces at the sensation of hitting the floor once more. Soft brown hair fell into the stranger’s face, lips curved into a small frown as he tried to help Minho up into a sitting position.

“Thanks,” He groans out in Korean, missing the brief look of relief that flashed across the person’s face as he rubbed his ankles. His side seemed to take the most of brunt of action as it seemed, a sharp pain spiking up his spine as he winced.

“Hey, it’s okay,” The stranger rubs at his side, having switched to Korean as well. Minho notices the small lilt in their voice, slightly musical and pleasant to the ear, mellow and soft. “It’s not everyday I meet someone who falls for me as I try and greet them.”

The words held a hint of a joke as Minho met the other’s eyes in his moment of pain. They offered a hand, helping Minho pull himself up and dust them off.

“I see that Chris provided you with something to wear? He said that he’d dropped off some things for the newbie that Jisung dropped off here,” The stranger stated, leading Minho back into the small building, bell jingling as he held the door open for Minho. Their voice softened around the word Chris, though they sounded annoyed at the action. Minho faintly wondered what that was all about before begrudgingly followed the stranger into the shop, eyes wandering around the crickets littered around tidy shelves, papers spilling out of cabinets. The stranger shuffled over to the farthest side, rummaging through drawers until he came across a file, humming softly as plopped down on a nearby table, feet propped up on the sun soaked surface. Minho awkwardly nudged his way over, gently pushing things away as he settled in front of the person.

As he got closer, he studied the other’s face more closely. up close, the sun’s rays slightly distorted their fear, gold splayed across bold brows furrowed over gentle eyebrows. Their lips held a curve much like Chris’s, only thinner and slightly pointed downwards as they studied the paper closer, long fingers tapping at their thigh. A strong jawline cut a 3 o’clock shadow upon the other’s graceful neck, dipping down to reveal clavicles covered by a shirt much like his own.

“Are you done staring now?”

Their voice jerked Minho out of trance, now focusing back on those gentle brown eyes, curved into slight presents as they stare at Minho with a light smile. Minho stutters something intelligible out of his fumbling mouth, and the stranger just chuckles at this, gesturing for him to move closer. 

“By the way, my name’s Woojin. I haven’t had a good chance to introduce myself yet, uhh….” Woojin’s eyebrow furrowed, eyes straying across Minho’s face.

“Minho,” Minho says aloud in the sunlit room, watching Woojin’s eyes flash recognition for a split second before he’s back to shuffling the pages, pulling out a paper which suspiciously looked like a form.

“Well, Minho,” Woojin tried out his name, syllables falling off his lips as he looked over the papers. “You’re the new one, huh?”

Minho only raised an eyebrow at the question. “If you’re talking about the fact that Cha— Chris called me newbie, I guess so,” He spread his arms out and stretched, popping his spine in the process. 

“I know nothing about this place,” Minho muttered, scratching the back of his neck as he returned his hands to his sides. 

Woojin only smiled at him, his eyes betraying sadness in spite of his expression as he turned the paper towards Minho, the bold black letters strange yet oddly familiar:

Neo Culture Technology, est. 199X.

Minho’s mouth dropped open as he scanned down further, seeing his name and birthdate printed cleanly with a blue pen, his birthdate, his address, even his own blood type and phone number. His mind frantically scrambled to put the pieces together as he reads his diagnosis, his time in the hospital, all signed at the bottom with his own flourishing signature, ink flashing back at him.

Blood red ink stamped at the corner, flaunting the number 2019 back at him.

“You must be very disorientated right now,” Woojin’s voice echoed slightly, bringing Minho back to reality. He hadn’t realized just how hard his heart had been pounding, how his hands clenched into fists as he stared back up at Woojin, reading his form which should not have even existed now.

“How…. How did this,” Minho’s mind spun as he sensed Woojin place on of his hands upon his own, felt the warmth under the other’s skin. He swallowed thickly tearing his gaze from the paper back to Woojin, who was eyeing him cautiously. “How did you even get this?”

Woojin just nodded at his words, as if his assumptions were confirmed by what Minho had just said. “Not everything can be brought to the future, Minho, but travel to the past? That’s just reliving another’s memories.”

Minho just stared at Woojin, who had picked himself up and wordlessly filed the folder away in the sea a papers, before facing Minho again.

“Think of it this way; this world, as you see it, are the collective memories of people who have already lived and been in this time. Their experiences, memories, feelings, and sensations collectively make up what you re experiencing right now,” Woojin gestures around him, Minho looking around the cramped office.

“But… it just feels so real,” Minho whispered, eyes shifting around and landing back on Woojin. “So does that mean you’re also…?”

Woojin just smiled at his question. “Correct. Kim Woojin, or myself, is no more than just the amalgamation of everyone’s memories of me, and my own memories.” He seemed a bit wistful at this statement, smile faltering before he regained his composure.

“They chose me to become a guide in this world of memories when I died, so that I could not forget the world I had created,” Woojin’s smile seems strained, eyes no longer betraying that gentle twinkle. “I was made into the central hub of the collective memories of all of those who wished to donate their past in order for this program to run, and made into the motherboard of this artificial past. I became a guide to this world, welcoming all of those who wished to give up their own history in order to relive a short bit of everyone else’s past.” He gave Minho a once-over, then pulled himself to his feet, sighing as he made his way to the door.

“Come on now, newbie,” Woojin called, holding the door open, smiling while his eyes bore regret as Minho stumbled his way over, avoiding that sad, sad gaze.

“Let’s make the most of your hours.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: can y'all hold onto sumthing  
> y'all: aight what is it  
> me: nothing much  
> me:  
> me:  
> me: just this cliffhanger el o el gotta blas t

**Author's Note:**

> doot doot whats a moot


End file.
